The Watchman

POETRY.

HOPES. WHAT ARE THEY?

Supposed to have been found in a Hermit's Cell.

Hopes, what are they?—Beads of morning
Strung on slender blades of grass;
Or a spider's web adorning
In a strait and treacherous pass.

What are fears but voices airy?
Whispering harm where harm is not.
And deluding the unwary
Till the fatal bolt is shot!

What is glory?—in the socket
See how dying tapers flare!
What is pride?—a whizzing rocket,
That would emulate a star.

What is friendship?—do not trust her,
Nor the vows which she has made;
Diamonds dart their brightest lustre
From a palsy-shaken head.

What is truth?—a staff rejected;
Duty?—an unwelcome clog;
Joy?—a moon by fits reflected
In a swamp or watery bog.

Bright, as if through ether steering,
To the Traveller's eye it shone;
He hath hailed it re-appearing—
And as quickly it is gone;

Gone, as if for ever hidden;
Or mis-shapen to the sight,
And by sullen weeds forbidden
To resume its native light.

What is youth?—a dancing billow,
(Winds behind, and rocks before!)
Age?—a drooping, tottering willow,
On a flat and lazy shore.

What is peace?—when pain is over,
And love ceases to rebel;
Let the last faint sigh discover,
That precedes the passing knell!

WORDSWORTH.